of genius, and produced works of a like extreme character, the mind of Rogers, calm and self-balanced, pursued its course, apparently uninfluenced by all that moved around him. With human nature and human life in general he sympathised, but the love of the true and the beautiful in it prevailed over the contagion of the vast and violent; he dealt rather with the pure and touching incidents of existence than with the passionate and the tragic. Many, on this account, have been disposed to attribute to him a want of power and greatness, forgetting that the predominating character of his taste inevitably decided the character of his subjects, and that to these subjects he gave all the power and beauty which they were capable of. Mr. Rogers was a great master in his own department. In him taste lived as strongly as genius. He was a poetic artist. The beautiful and the refined mingle themselves with the structure as inseparably as with the material of his compositions. He knew that there is greatness in the broad champaign, with its woods and towns, as well as in the huge and splendid mountain; in the lofty but pure and placid sky, as well as in the stormy ocean. It is not the creator only of the Laocoon in all his agonies, that is a great artist-the Apollo Belvedere, and the Venus de Medicis, and the Mourning Psyche, calm in most perfect repose, or depressed with grief, equally demonstrate the hand of a master. There is often the most consummate display of genius in the stillest statue. Poussin or Claude are not the less admirable because they do not affect the robust horrors of Rubens or the wildness of Salvator. In Rogers, the true, the pathetic-all those feelings, and sentiments, and associations that are dear to us as life itself-are evolved with a skill that is unrivalled; and the language is elaborated to a perfection that resembles the finish of a beautiful picture, or the music to inimitable words. If we needed the excitement of impetuous emotions, we would turn to Byron; if the influence of calm, and soothing, and harmonizing ones, we would sit down to Rogers. Each is eminent in his own department, each will exercise the supremacy of his genius upon us. This, we say,-who, though often invited, never ate one of his breakfasts or dinners; and having said it during his life, we say it now that the lion is dead,-the celebrated breakfast-table is sold, and there is a very ungrateful tendency perceptible to depreciate his genius. These things, however, alway right themselves, and Rogers will eventually hold an honourable position in the ranks of our best poets.

In the Pleasures of Memory we are forcibly reminded of Goldsmith and the Deserted Village. We feel how deeply the genius of that exquisite writer had affected the mind of Rogers in his youth. There is a striking similarity of style, of imagery, and of subject. It is not a deserted village, but a deserted mansion which is described, and where we are led to sympathise with all that is picturesque in nature, and dear to the heart in domestic life.

"Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees,
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze.
That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed.

The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court,
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.

See, through the fractured pediment revealed,
Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured shield,
The martin's old hereditary nest-

Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest!

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call!
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall!
That hall, where once in antiquated state.
The chair of justice held the grave debate.

Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung,
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung:
When round yon ample board in due degree,
We sweetened every meal with social glee.
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest;
And all was sunshine in each little breast.
'Twas here we traced the slipper by the sound,
And turned the blindfold hero round and round.
'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring;
And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing.
Giants and genii chained each wondering ear;
And orphan sorrows drew the ready tear.
Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood,
Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood.
Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour,
With startling step we scaled the lonely tower,
O'er infant innocence to hang and weep,

Murdered by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep.
Ye household Deities! whose guardian eye
Marked each pure thought we registered on high;
Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,
And breathe the soul of inspiration round.
As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.
The storied arras, source of fond delight,

With old achievement charms the wildered sight;
And still with heraldry's rich hues impressed,
On the dim window glows the pictured crest;
The screen unfolds its many-coloured chart;
The clock still points its moral to the heart-
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear,
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near;
And nas its sober hand, its simple chime,

Forgot to trace the feathered feet of Time?

That massive beam with curious carvings wrought,

Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought;

Those muskets cased with venerable rust.

Those once-loved forms still breathing through their dust,
Still from the frame in mould gigantic cast,

Starting to life-all whisper of the past!"

This is so exquisite and old English that it will continue to charm as long as there are hearts and memories. The whole of the first part of the poem is of the like tone and feature; the old garden, the old school and its porch, the gipsy group, the old beggar, the village church and churchyard—

"On whose grey stone, that fronts the chancel door,
Worn smooth by tiny feet now seen no more,
Each eve we shot the marble through the ring,
When the heart danced, and life was in the spring."

As it advances, however, it takes a wider range, and gradually embraces higher topics and more extensive regions. History and death, and eternity, all swell into its theme.

A new element of style also marks the progress of this poem. There are more animated invocations, and a greater pomp of versification. It looks as if the muse of Darwin had infused its more ambitious tone, without leading the poet away from his purely legitimate subjects. By whatever passing influences, or processes of thought, this change was produced, there it is. This poem, and this peculiar style of versification, soon caught the ear and fascinated the mind of Campbell when a very young man, and out of the Pleasures of Memory sprung the Pleasures of Hope. The direct imitation of both style, manner, subject, and cast of subject, by Campbell, is one of the most striking things in the language; the peculiarities of the style and phraseology only, as was natural by an enthusiastic youth, much exaggerated. In Campbell, that which in Rogers is somewhat sounding and high-toned, becomes, with all its beauty, turgid, and often bordering on bombast. The very epithets are the same. "The wild bee's wing," "the warworn courser," and "pensive twilight in her dusky car," continually in the Pleasures of Hope remind you of the Pleasures of Memory.

"Hark, the bee winds her small but mellow horn,

Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn.
O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course,
And many a stream allures her to its source.

'Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought,
Beyond the reach of sense, the soar of thought,
Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind:

Its orb so full, its vision so confined!

Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell?

Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell?

With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue

Of summer scents, that charmed her as she flew?

Hail, Memory, hail! thy universal reign

Guards the least link of being's glorious chain."-ROGERS.

In the disciple the manner is reproduced, and yet modified as in these lines:

"Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden grow
Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe;
Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour,
The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower;
There as the wild bee murmurs on the wing,
What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring!
What viewless forms th' Eolian organ play,

And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away."--CAMPBELL.

How well the master and the scholar may be again recognised in the following passages :—

"So, when the mild TUPIA dared explore

Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before;
And with the sons of science wooed the gale,
That rising, swelled their strange expanse of sail;
So when he breathed his firm, yet fond adieu,
Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe,
And all his soul best loved, such tears he shed
While each soft scene of summer beauty fled.
Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast,

Long watched the streaming signal from the mast;
Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye,

And fairy forests fringed the evening sky."-ROGERS.

"And such thy strength-inspiring aid, that bore
The hardy Byron to his native shore,-

In horrid climes where Chiloe's tempests sweep
Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep,
'Twas his to mourn misfortune's rudest shock,
Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock,
To wake each joyless morn and search again
The famished haunts of solitary men ;
Whose race, unyielding as their native storm,
Know not a trace of nature but the form;
Yet at thy call the hardy tar pursued,
Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued;
Pierced the deep woods, and hailing from afar
The moon's pale planet, and the northern star;
Paused at each dreary cry unheard before,

Hyenas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore;
Till led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime,

He found a warmer world, a milder clime,

A home to rest, a shelter to defend,

Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend!"-CAMPBELL.

Into every form of expression the scholar follows his master :

"When Diocletian's self-corrected mind

The imperial fasces of a world resigned,

Say, why we trace the labours of his spade

In calm Salona's philosophic shade?

Say, when contentious Charles renounced a throne,
To muse with monks unlettered and unknown,

What from his soul the parting tribute drew,

What claimed the sorrows of a last adieu?"-ROGERS.

"And say, when summoned from the world and thee,

I lay my head beneath the willow tree,

Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear,

And soothe my parting spirit lingering near?"-CAMPBELL.

But the likeness is found everywhere-in phrase, in imagery, in topics, and in tone. When, after a lapse of twenty-seven years, Mr. Rogers produced his poem of Human Life, what a change of manner, what a transformation of style had taken place in him! No longer the grandiloquent invocations were found; no longer the sounding style, no longer the easy recurrence of the cadence, pausing on the cæsura and falling at the close of the line. Here the whole rhythm and construction were of a new school and a new generation. The style was more simple and more vigorous. The sentences marched on with a rare recurrence of the cæsura, the cadence did not fall with the end of the line, but oftener far in the middle of it, and the verse abounded with triplets.

"He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all

All met as at a holy festival!

-On the day destined for his funeral!

Lo! there the friend, who, entering where he lay,
Breathed in his drowsy ear-'Away, away!

Take thou my cloak-Nay, start not, but obey!
Take it, and leave me.'"

What a total revolution is here! The old chime is gone, the old melody is exchanged for a new. All depends on entirely new principles, and seeks to give pleasure through an utterly fresh medium. But the poem itself is one of the most beautiful things in any language. It is human life from the cradle to the tomb, with all its pleasures, aspirations, trials, and triumphs. Everything which clings round the spirit of man as precious, everything which wins us

onward, and sustains us in sorrow, and soothes us under the infliction of wrong, the glory of public good, and the hallowed charm of domestic affection, is thrown into this poem, with the art of a master and the great soul of a sanctified experience. Nor were the varied scenes of English life ever more sweetly described. The wedding and the burial, the village wake and the field sports, the battle and the victory, all are blended inimitably into the great picture of existence, and at times the aged minstrel rises into a strain of power and animation, such as rebuke the doubters of those attributes in him.

"Then is the age of admiration-Then

Gods walk the earth, or beings more than men;
Who breathe the soul of inspiration round,
Whose very shadows consecrate the ground!
Ah! then comes thronging many a wild desire,
And high imagining, and thought of fire!
Then from within, a voice exclaims- Aspire!
Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass,
As in the cave athwart the wizard's glass;
They, that on youth a grace, a lustre shed,
Of every age, the living and the dead!"

Still this poem of Human Life is but the life of one section of our fellow-men-that of the gentry. It is curious, that it does not descend into the midst of the multitude, and give us any of those deep and sombre shades which abound so much in Crabbe. The reason is obvious. Crabbe had seen it and felt it. He had been born amongst it, and had himself to struggle. Rogers had gone on that easy path of life that is paved with gold, and "the huts where poor men lie," therefore, probably never for a moment protruded themselves through the charmed circle of his poetic inspiration. Happily for him his were wholly the Pleasures of Memory. Yet, as we have said, it is not the less true, or less honourable, that in actual life, there was no man who has remembered the struggling more sympathetically, nor has held out a more generous hand to the aid of unfriended merit. From the Voyage of Columbus the following extract will afford an example of the beautiful description and rich imaginative power which abound in that poem.

THE NEW WORLD.

"Long on the deep the mists of morning lay,
Then rose, revealing, as they rolled away,
Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods
Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods:
And say, when all to holy transport given,
Embraced and wept as at the gate of Heaven,
When one and all of us, repentant, ran,

And on our faces, blessed the wondrous man,-
Say, was I thus deceived, or from the skies
Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies?
'Glory to God!' unnumbered voices sung,
'Glory to God!' the vales and mountains rung-
Voices that hailed Creation's primal morn,
And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born.

Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we bore
The sacred cross, and kneeling, kissed the shore.
But what a scene was there? Nymphs of romance,
Youths graceful as the Faun, with eager glance
Spring from the glades, and down the alleys peep;
Some headlong rush, bounding from steep to steep,